


A Heavy Heart to Carry

by theheadgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-23
Updated: 2010-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheadgirl/pseuds/theheadgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, two broken people find each other to try and make themselves whole again.  (Originally written for the gryff_boys_kink meme: "Oliver finds Percy in an abandoned classroom after the Final Battle. Oliver tries to comfort him, Percy kisses him and begs him to make the pain go away. They make love.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heavy Heart to Carry

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks go to my Gryffindors for being so awesome. The characters aren't mine and I'm not making any money off of this.

It's over.

I've managed to find a spare bit of bench to sink down on, and sure, there's a dead body right behind me - a Ravenclaw girl, judging by the bloodied trim on her jumper - but there are dead bodies everywhere. I can't be picky. My eyes are gritty with stone dust, and my arms are covered in blood (whose, I really can't say), and I just need to sit and be for a little while before I can deal with everything, or anything. Lowering my head, I run my hands through my hair, trying to breathe. 

"Ollie?"

The voice comes from behind me, to my left, and for a single, terrifying moment I think it's the dead girl, she's not dead or she's come back to life and - I whirl around, and Katie Bell steps back, staring at me with wide eyes. 

"Katie," I breathe, and in lieu of an apology, I hold my arms out to her. Her face crumbles, and she practically collapses into my arms, on my lap, and we just sit there for a moment, clinging to each other. I can feel her shaking in my arms, sobbing into my shoulder, and I stroke her hair, feeling the blood stiffening the ponytail and the dust sticking to it. 

"Ollie," she says, pulling back, eyes bright and shiny with tears, "Fred - "

"What about Fred?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

"He's dead."

"Oh my God," I whisper, and I let my head fall against Katie's shoulder for a moment as I struggle to retain control. It's hard, harder than almost anything else, because I can't help but think about George, George without Fred - it's not right, it's the natural order of things upset and broken, it's _wrong_. 

"Anyone else?" I ask, looking up at Katie once I've got myself under some semblance of control. She shakes her head.

"Not ... not, you know. An - Angelina's okay; um, Lee's in hospital, something to do with his arm; Alicia is too, she's ... hurt pretty badly. Harry's okay, obviously. George is ... " She looks up and over to the right, and I follow her gaze to see the Weasleys, gathered around a table. Someone's wailing, and I think numbly it must be Mrs. Weasley. Without thinking, I count - six red heads, one black, one brunette, one blonde. A blink, and I count again - isn't someone missing?

_Fred_ , my mind suggests helpfully, and I have to fight down the fresh wave of grief. But that's not right - someone else is missing.

"Where's Percy Weasley?" I ask Katie. She looks at me for a moment, confused, then shakes her head.

"I don't know. I didn't see him in the hospital wing."

"I'm going to find him," I say, then squeeze her around the waist. "Will you be okay?"

"Yeah." She manages a weak, watery smile, my brave girl. "I'll be fine." I pat her side, and she slides off of my lap, squeezes my hand, then heads off to find another girl from her year - Leanne, I think - and hugs her. I get to my feet and walk as quickly as I can to the entrance of the Great Hall, trying to ignore the bodies, which is much harder than I thought it would be. They're not moving, so why do they keep catching my attention? Closing my eyes, I press my hands hard to my eyes and shake my head, then walk out of the Great Hall just like that. 

Searching a place like Hogwarts for one person ought to be a rather daunting task, but I lived with Percy Weasley for seven years, and one gets to know a person kind of well in that time, even if they don't talk much. I remember - and God help me, I don't know why - one conversation in fourth year, when Percy had returned from being out of the room. He'd been gone for ages, and I'd asked,

_"Where do you go, Weasley?"_

_He shrugged. "Somewhere quiet, where I can study." Apparently ending the conversation there, he turned to his desk and began sorting through his bag, getting out what he'd need for tomorrow._

_"Yeah," I pressed, "but where do you_ go _?"_

_A pause, and he looked at me for a long moment. I stared back, wondering why. Finally, he said, "There's a room on the third floor with a blue door. I go there. No one else does." Turning back to the desk, he added quietly, "Don't tell the twins."_

_"I won't," I said, and I didn't - mainly because I forgot about it about ten seconds later._

But I remember it now, and I take the stairs two steps at a time, looking for a blue door among the rubble. There - near the stairs on the far side of the castle. After more maneuvering and dodging of shifting rubble, I find myself in front of it, and push at the doorknob. It swings open, revealing a dark room mostly untouched by the battle. I step in, looking around, wondering what this room was before - there are a few chairs scattered here and there, as well as some paintings, though the occupants are long gone. It's so quiet and still at first that I think I must have been mistaken, that maybe Percy isn't here - then I hear the shifting of footsteps and I whirl, wand out.

Percy stares at me, wand pointed at my heart, and my wand lowers a little. He looks like shit, to put it kindly. His normally-neat hair is a wreck, his glasses are broken, and his suit - he must have come here from work - is ripped, burned, smeared with dirt and blood, tie askew. His face is covered with cuts and bruises, including a painful looking gash along his cheek that's still oozing blood. The hand clutching his wand is shaking, and his knuckles are bruised.

"Percy," I say softly.

"What class did I drop after third year?" he demands of me. I stare at him blankly, not sure of the relevance of the question, and his voice gets tighter, lined with hysteria. "Answer me, Wood!"

"Divination," I say finally, and his wand lowers, shoulders and head drooping like a puppet with cut strings. 

"Perce," I say, slowly closing the distance between us, "why - ?"

"Had to be sure it was you," he replies hollowly, looking up. "Why are you here, Wood?"

"Why aren't you down in the Great Hall?"

He says something, but his voice is so quiet it's barely above a whisper, and I have to step in closer to hear him. I raise my eyebrows, silently asking him to repeat himself, and he says, louder, "I can't do it."

"Can't do what?" I ask.

"It hurts too much," he continues, apparently not hearing me. He looks away, takes off his glasses to rub at his eyes, and completely inappropriately, my breath catches in my throat. I never had much call to notice Percy's eyes before, or much of a chance, since he always wore those glasses. But without them, I can't miss how blue they are, especially - like I said, inappropriate - against the bloodshot whites of his eyes. 

"You can't stay up here," I say, reaching out for his wrist. "Your family needs you."

"Needs me?" he demands, wrist jerking back from my hand whip-fast. "Needs me to _what_? Kill someone else?" 

"What?" I stare at him like he's speaking in Mermish. "What do you mean?"

"You heard me!" The note of hysteria is back in his voice, and he stares at me with wild eyes as he shoves his glasses back on. "I can't be near them, I'll kill someone else!"

"Perce. Percy." I step forward, speaking low and soothingly, like to a cornered animal. "You didn't kill anyone; I don't know what -"

His hands flash out and shove me hard. Caught off-guard, I stumble backwards, tripping over an uneven flagstone and barely managing to keep my balance.

"You don't know what you're talking about!" His voice is getting higher, words coming faster, breath hitching in his throat. "You weren't there! I killed Fred!"

I just stare at him for a moment, trying to unravel what he's just said. "What do you mean?" I ask finally, because I know - for certain - there is no way in hell Percy could kill Fred. They might fight and bicker, but they're still family. 

"I killed him," he repeats, voice shaking, tears filling his eyes again. "I distracted him, and then the - the wall collapsed, and if I hadn't distracted him, he'd be alive."

"No!" The word bursts out of me before I can stop it, and he looks frightened, steps back. I take a deep breath to calm myself and reach out for him, pressing my hands on his shoulders to hold him in place. "That wasn't your fault, Percy. No one blames you for it. You didn't kill Fred." 

"You don't understand," he repeats, and his eyes flick up to mine, and it feels like time slows between us. Before I know what I'm doing, my hands on his shoulders shift, gripping them, and his hands are coming up to rest on my waist, light, barely a feather's touch, and I'm not sure who initiates it, but then we're kissing.

It starts slow, awkward, chaste, but the adrenaline pumping through our veins means it doesn't stay that way for long. His long fingers clutch at my sides and my hands tighten on his shoulders to where it must hurt, but he just whimpers into the kiss, a desperate, helpless sound that shoots down my throat and straight between my legs. 

After a moment, panting, I pull back, and we stare at each other for a moment. His eyes are glazed, pupils dilated, and his mouth works silently like he can't precisely remember how to talk. 

"Make it stop," he whispers, and I shiver a little at the low, husky tone of his voice.

"Make what stop?" I ask, my own voice roughened with desire. 

"The pain." And before I can say another word, he's on me again, kissing me with an intensity and a passion I never expected from Percy Weasley. I wonder if this passion has always been there, pulsing beneath that bright red hair, glowing under his neatly pressed clothes. He whimpers again, and then his tongue is pressing against my lips. Unthinkingly, I part them and he sweeps in, hungry, almost possessively, exploring my mouth with broad strokes. His hands move from my waist to my hair, clutching at my head, forcibly tilting it to deepen the kiss. I groan from low in my chest, and my tongue slides out to meet his, tangling together in a moment that's frantic and intimate all at once. 

We're moving, then; I'm pushing him back and he's stumbling backwards until I've got him pressed against the wall, and I push my thigh between his legs and start rocking against him as we keep kissing. He gasps into my mouth, and I can't miss the erection pressing against my thigh. Part of my brain wonders when Percy Weasley stopped going after girls like Penelope Clearwater and started being attracted to blokes - specifically to me, instead of someone skinny and bookish like him - but most of it is too busy being focused on the fact that he is a really, really good kisser. The man can do things with his tongue that feel like they should be against some rule, somewhere - but he's doing them, so I can be fairly sure it's all by the book. 

His hand leaves my head and reaches between my legs, groping my erection, and I groan against him, bucking helplessly into his hand. 

"Oliver," he gasps out, pulling back from the kiss and my knees nearly go weak, hearing the need and desire laid bare in his normally tightly controlled voice. "Oliver, I need you -"

"What?" I say, staring at him. I can guess what he's asking for, but Merlin, now? Here? "Percy, are you sure -"

He gropes me again, and this time, his voice brooks no argument. "Oliver, I need you."

"Okay," I breathe, and the next few moments are a blur of fumbling fingers and tugging at trousers and jeans, shoving boxers out of the way and getting him turned around, chest pushed up against the rough stone wall, arms crossed in front of him to give his head somewhere to rest. It kills me to take the time to prepare him; my body is aching, screaming to be with him now, but he said to make it _stop hurting_ , not _make it hurt in a different way_ so skipping this isn't an option. Slicking my fingers with saliva, I press one into him, then two when he seems ready, and finally three, and by the time he's whimpering into his elbow and rocking back onto my fingers I think I might actually die of arousal overload. Finally, I spit into my hand again and slick myself up, pressing myself against him. 

"Perce," I whisper, and he rocks back as though he can tell I'm about to ask him again if this is okay, and he wants to make it clear that I need to shut up and do this. 

So I do. 

It's hot and slick and incredible, almost hurts it feels so good. He's tight, and he makes these _noises_ , these little whimpers and gasps that make me thrust into him that much harder, faster, losing my regular rhythm. I want to make this good for him, too, hit his prostate and take care of him, but God, it's so hard to do anything but _feel_ , feel his heat and tightness, the way he clenches around me. One of his hands leaves the wall, and it makes me burn even hotter to realize he's touching himself, and it's all I can do to hang on for the ride.

He comes first, clenching around me and letting out a strangled noise that's almost a sob. The sudden extra friction from his climax sends me spiraling into the abyss after him, and I press tight against his back with a loud moan into his neck. As I slump against him, panting for air, I feel him trembling, his breaths coming harshly. It takes a moment for the realization to fight through the haze of afterglow around my brain that it wasn't a noise _almost_ like a sob. It _was_ a sob.

I don't know what to say, what to do, so I press against him tighter, murmuring nonsense reassurances into his ear and stroking my hands against his arms, letting him ride it out. Finally, he sags against the wall and whispers, "Oliver."

"Percy," I whisper back, kissing behind his ear.

He shifts uncomfortably, and I slide out of him, keeping my hands on his shoulders, wanting to keep that contact for as long as I can. He's blushing, though it's hard to tell what's from exertion, what's from crying, and what's from embarrassment by now. Finally, he looks up, managing to meet my eyes for a second before looking away again. "Thank you," he says, voice still low, shaking. 

I kiss him again instead of answering him, and I hope he understands what I'm trying to say: _I wish it didn't have to be like this._

We break apart and he brushes his fingers lightly over my cheek before stepping away, and we both begin straightening up, putting ourselves away and Scouring away the signs of our ... encounter. When we're done, he stands awkwardly for a moment, then holds out his hand. Without hesitating, I reach for his, tangling our fingers together.

It's going to take a lot more to heal Percy than one really brilliant shag in a classroom, and it's going to take a lot more to heal our world than just bringing down You-Know-Who. But, I think, squeezing Percy's hand as we leave the room, it'll be a hell of a lot easier since we're not doing it alone.


End file.
